Enschede halted. Jonathan smiled contemptuously. The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound. “He was a friend of your sister’s, was he not?” “I never heard her mention his name,” she answered. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. The mere fact that he was there in the train alongside her, helping her, sitting opposite to her in the dining-car, presently sleeping on a seat within a yard of her, made her heart sing until she was afraid their fellow passengers would hear it. I loathe this room.
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